From a box to my left, I grabbed the Hufflepuff Disco Pumpkin, a horrible seven-year-old pumpkin preserved with black and gold glitter and crystals we strung up every year. It was almost painful to look at, but it was a tradition.

“Calvin, we are going to have a very long talk about boundaries, safety, and the Quidditch Elite when I’m done sorting out your mess,” I said, narrowing my eyes. Calvin looked petrified. “You may have just undone seven years of my hard work.”